


70 Christmases To Make Up For

by Team_Free_Tardis_Deduction



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU, Angst, Art, Canon-Era, Childhood, Children, Christmas, Christmas AU, Drabble, Fanfic, Fanfiction, Fluff, Gay, Happy, M/M, Modern, Modern AU, One-Shot, Post-Serum, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sad, Ship, Short, Sickness, Stucky - Freeform, WWII, War, War AU, Wartime, canon AU, first avengers, gay ship, kid!Bucky, kid!steve, otp, pre-serum!Steve, slash fic, winter soldier - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-06 21:40:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5431790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Team_Free_Tardis_Deduction/pseuds/Team_Free_Tardis_Deduction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve had spent Christmas alone each year after he'd awoken from his 70 year slumber; now, with his best bud Bucky back, they have a hell of a lot of Christmases to make up for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	70 Christmases To Make Up For

Bucky trudged through the snowy streets of 1929 Brooklyn. His coat whipped about his kneecaps, snow swirling around the toes of his boots in a wintery flurry. Burying his red nose further into the folds of his navy blue scarf, Bucky tucked the brown paper-wrapped gift snugly beneath the crook of his left arm and skipped up the familiar steps to the Rogers' apartment.

Bucky passed a gloved hand through the dampened strands of his dark hair, ruffling it a little to shake loose the relentless snowflakes still clinging to him, then fixed it as best he could before rapping sharply on the rickety wood door. His knocking was met by Sarah; a small-framed, thin woman who would've been quite beautiful if not for the sickly, pinched features of her face and her over-all undernourishment.

"Hello, James." She greeted him with her famously warm smile, a hint of her youthful beauty shining through in her eyes.

"Hello, Mrs. Rogers." Bucky shifted on the doormat. "Is Steve home?"

"Of course!" Sarah stepped back, inviting Bucky in. "We've been expecting you."

"Oh." The young boy ducked inside, grateful for the shelter the house provided from the December chill. "I hadn't really told Steve I was coming, though?"

"I know, but," Sarah smiled slyly at him and winked. "We figured. Steve's in his room, he'll be glad to see you."

Bucky thanked her and accepted her offer of tea and a biscuit before jogging down the hallway to Steve's little tucked-away room at the back of the tiny apartment.

"Steve?"

The door was wrenched open, revealing Steve in a ratty Christmas sweater, a stupidly big grin plastered on his thin face. "Hiya, Buck!"

Bucky returned Steve's smile with a toothy one of his own, stepping into his room and dropping down on his bed. The room was small, probably originally meant to be a storage cupboard, just big enough for a bed and a chest of draws. The walls were plastered with Steve's sketches, most of them done on napkins and the backs of old newspapers, a scarce few on actual paper. Bucky had scoured these walls time and time again, he knew every picture by memory. His favourite was the one pinned to the back of Steve's door; it was a sketchy picture, good for Steve's age of 11, that portrayed the image of a soldier, adorned in stars and stripes, two young boys at his side- one on his left and one on his right. Steve had drawn it only a few months ago, explaining that the soldier was a war hero and the two boys on his left and right were Bucky and himself respectively.  
Bucky's favourite aspect of the sketch was the soldier's uniform, it was unlike any he'd ever seen, and it fascinated him.

"Merry Christmas, Bucky." Steve dropped down beside him, kicking his feet in the open space a few centimetres from the ground, not yet big enough to reach the ground.

"Merry Christmas, Steve." Bucky blinked and glanced down at him, smiling. "Hey, I gotcha somethin'."

"What?" Steve looked surprised, which Bucky thought was stupid because he always got Steve a gift.

"Aw, shuddup, Stevie." Bucky procured the present from under his arm and placed it in Steve's lap. "It's not much, but I got it myself, so..."

"Really?"

"Yeah, why'd you think I took that job with the milkman? I wouldn't get up that early for nothin', Steve."

Steve laughed and nudged Bucky's arm. "You're the best, Buck."

"Don't thank me yet, open the present!"

Steve was delicate in untying the simple string wrapped around the gift, dividing the package into quarters; delicately pealing the paper away with circumspect precision, careful not to tear the paper. The wrapping fell away revealing a decent-sized sketch book with neat, black leather covering and crisp, fresh parchment paper.

"It's the one you wanted, right?" Bucky worried his lower lip between his teeth.

Steve was speechless for a moment, fingers skating over the unblemished pages of the book. Then he sniffled. Then the gently placed the book aside.

Then he threw his arms around Bucky and kissed his cheek.

"Thank-you." Steve chocked, hurriedly pulling back from Bucky and fiddling with the cover of the sketch book, face ripe-apple red.

Bucky stared at him, stunned, mouth hanging slightly agape.  
"Uhh..." He said. "S-s'nothin'."

Steve sniffled and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "No, it's not, Bucky, thank-you. Thank-you."

Bucky nodded, having nothing more to say, his cheek tingling where Steve's lips had pressed into his skin ever so slightly, ever so hurriedly. His boyish crush was getting the better of him, and he honestly didn't have the sense to stop it. The kid was only 12, after all.

Sarah knocked on the door a few moments later.  
"Steve, James?" Her soft Irish lilt wafted through the cracks in Steve's door.

"Yeah, mama?" Steve replied, his voice still a little hoarse.

"Supper's ready if you want t' come wash up and dig in."

"Thank-you, Mrs. Rogers. We'll be right out." Bucky replied, regulating his voice carefully. The sound of her limping, heeled gate gradually died and Bucky stood, offering a hand to Steve. Steve, in turn, waved it away and stood up, not quite meeting Bucky's shoulders in height. Neither of them said anything, and nothing was said about the fleeting kiss during the course of the night, but the moment hung in the back of their minds for the remainder of the evening.

 

"So, James," Sarah said around a mouthful of potato. "Whatd'ya get for Christmas?"

"Uhm," Bucky swallowed and took a sip of his water. "I got a bike from my grandad. A big red'un with white handlebars." He grinned, forgetting his manners for the moment and turning excitedly to Steve. "You can have a go on it tomorrow, if ya like?"

Steve nodded enthusiastically. "If that's alright."

"Of course!" Bucky clapped a friendly hand on Steve's boney shoulder.

"How lovely." Sarah smiled at him. "And how sweet of you to offer Steven a go."

"Well, Mrs. Rogers, he's my pal. It's no problem."

"Make sure you wrap up warm, then, tomorrow." Sarah addressed her boy. "We can't have you catchin' a cold, son."  
The words were said in a light enough tone, but fell heavily on Bucky. It was true that the Rogers couldn't afford for Steve to catch a cold, in more ways than one.

"I will, mama." Steve chirped back, obviously indifferent to his mother's subtle warning. "Speaking of presents, can we give it to him now?" He bounced eagerly in his seat.

"Let him finish eating first, Steven." Sarah laughed, giving Bucky a sympathetic look and encouraging another spoonful of peas into his mouth with a wave of her translucent hand.

Steve stuck his lower lip out in a pout. "But I wanna give it to him. He already gave me mine!"

Sarah's eyes widened. "Oh, James, you got him something? You shouldn't have!"

"I wanted to, ma'am." Bucky couldn't help the prideful, smug smile that teased his lips. "It's really nothin', a few shifts with the milkman and an extra buck from dad and it was done, no sweat."  
It wasn't really nothing, Bucky's parents could've bought it for him, but he had felt obligated to work for it himself. Bucky'd pestered the milkman until he gave him a job, and worked tirelessly for weeks to earn the money- worked so well, even, that he'd been asked to stay on even after he'd scrounged up enough for the book he wanted. Bucky had politely declined the offer, not wanting to continue cutting down on playtime with Steve. The extra dollar from his dad had been for the wrapping and string.  
It hadn't been easy for the young boy, but he'd wanted Steve to have the very best; an expensive, professional sketchbook with proper paper and leather binding, thick as his forearm- almost- and fancy looking. Inside, on the front page, he'd written a short note in his neatessed handwriting (which wasn't really all that neat).

_'To Steve,_

_Merry Christmas to my best pal in the whole world. Draw a picture of me, will you?_

_~~Love~~ From Bucky 1929'_

In all honesty, Bucky was awfully proud of his gift to Steve.

Steve jiggled his legs impatiently for the remainder of the meal, having filled his tiny stomach faster than the others. Bucky shovelled his dinner in as quick as he could without looking like a mannerless swine, and downed the rest of his drink before taking his dishes to the sink.

"Now, ma?" Steve chirped, perking up the moment Bucky returned.

"Alright." Sarah laughed and waved them away.

Steve punched the air with a quiet _"Yess!"_ And dashed down the hall, returning a split second later with a bundle in his arms. "Sit down, Buck." He gestured to the ratty armchair by the fireplace.

Sarah smiled adoringly at the boys as they settled by the burning furnace and gathered up the dishes, giving them a moment of peace.

"It's not much," Steve admitted with a guilty shrug, adverting his eyes. "But I hope you like it."

Bucky wasn't expecting _anything_ from Steve, let alone 'much'. Sarah could barely afford to keep this poor excuse for a roof over their heads, he didn't imagine they'd even _think_ of giving him a gift for Christmas. Steve passed the bundle over with a blush reddening his cheeks, features shadowed by the light of the fire, orange dancing in his cerulean eyes.

Bucky took it and picked at the paper, peeling it away to reveal a bundle of wool.He unraveled the bundle, rolling the soft material out to reveal an oxford blue scarf with jagged red-and-yellow yarn trimming and tousled ends. It was wondrously soft, brushing over his fingers. It was obviously handmade, but well made; there were no notches or blemishes, and the stitching was tight and sturdy.

"Wow, Steve," Bucky grinned, wrapping the scarf around his neck. "It's amazing, thank-you."

"I told you it wasn't much." Steve screwed up the corner of his mouth.

"No, it is. It is, Steve, thank-you." Bucky reassured him with as honest a tone as he could manage, tenderly brushing his palm over the loose length of wool, flattening it against his chest. "It's great, did your mammy make it?"

"Yeah. I picked the wool and patterns and stuff and she knit it. Took her damn near four weeks."

Bucky laughed, not able to keep his hands from fiddling with the fluffy fabric wrapped around his neck. There was a warmth filling his chest that had nothing to do with the fire beside him, and everything to do with Steven Grant Rogers.

Bucky had to hand it to himself, he picked good best friends. Even when Steve had next to nothing, he thought of Bucky. And Bucky knew that even if he had nothing, he'd always have Steve.

* * *

 

Bucky trudged through the snowy streets of 1937 Brooklyn. The old, oxford blue scarf tied around his neck fluttered in the wind, flapping over his shoulders when a particularly harsh gale whipped passed him.

The streets were empty, everyone huddled inside to shelter from the bitter winter chill, cramped around a fire while record players emit the low hum of Christmas carols.

But not James Buchanan Barnes, no. Bucky was wading his way through 12 inches of snow, halfway across town.  
Because if there was one thing Bucky was absolutely certain of in this damned world, it was that Steve Rogers was not spending Christmas alone.

 

"Stevie?" Bucky called through the door, rapping his knuckles on the paled paint.

There was no reply.

"Steve, I'm coming in!" Bucky nudged the stray brick set a little way from the door, plucking the spare key from the icy steps and jimmying the rusted lock open. The house was cold when he stepped in; the fire bare, not even the shutters latched. Bucky felt cold dread seep into his heart, a lump forming in his throat.

"Steve?" Bucky called, the house was not only cold, but dim. His eyes squinted, trying so see through the shadows darkening the room. "Ste-"

Bucky's eyes fell upon a small heap on the floor by the kitchen counter. "Steve!"

He dashed forward, collapsing to his knees beside the bundle of shabby clothes and matted blond hair. He curled a hand under Steve's chest and pulled him up as gently as he could. His friend was light. Too light.

"Steve?" Bucky whispered, resting Steve's boney back to his chest, and running a hand through his hair, the light force pulling Steve's head down to rest against his own shoulder. "Steve, wake up. Steve?"

There was no reply. Steve was deathly pale, his skin translucent the way his mother's used to be; paler than ever before, despite it being thought impossible. Steve was thinner, too, which set a lead weight in Bucky's stomach; how long had Steve been starving for? Had he been starving? Or was he simply too sick to retain any food? So many questions, and none were helping to ease the dread looming over Bucky like a dark aura.

Taking a shaky breath, as if preparing himself for the worst, Bucky shifted his hand to press his middle and forefinger to Steve's neck. A tiny little repetitive pressure met his touch, and Bucky's heart leapt when he realised it was a fragile pulse. Fragile, but existent.

"Oh, thank-god." Bucky exhaled in a rush, unaware that he'd been on the verge of tears until one slipped free and trickle down the bridge of his nose to land with a silent splash on Steve's porcelain skin.

Next, Bucky checked his breathing, hovering a hand beneath Steve's nose. It was hard to detect at first, but there was a distinct, irregular puff of warm air escaping Steve's lungs. He was breathing; albeit not well, but enough to be alive, at the very least.

The tension that'd been building in Bucky's shoulders suddenly snapped and he collapsed around Steve's unconscious form, hugging him as tight to his chest as he dared and burying his face in his unwashed hair. He allowed himself a little sob, releif and fear and stress and compassion all flooding through him at once, overwhelming him.

"Oh god, Steve." Bucky croaked. "Oh god, please don't scare me like that."

 

Bucky knew he should have left immediately, but he simply couldn't abandon Steve on the floor of his refrigerator of an apartment while he ran to the doctor's. He propped Steve up on his dusty armchair, stealing his cover from the bed and tucking it around his friend's sharp shoulders, ensuring his chest was well covered.

It was while Bucky was stoking the fire that Steve let out the violent, barking wet cough. The kind that one knew had hurt just by the way it rattled in the chest; the kind that leaves one choking, gasping for breath. Bucky's hand shook and he dropped the iron prod down, fighting to steady his trembling fingers.  
Steve had been sick before, coughed before. Bucky's waited beside his bed with him for Steve to either recover, or die. Bucky's been told not to get his hopes up before, to be prepared to let go.

But this cough wasn't a Steve-cough, not even one of the worst Steve-coughs. This was a Sarah-cough; like the one she had before she...

"Steve, Steve." Bucky cupped his face, the fact that his hands seemed so giant next to Steve that they could completely cover his face frightening him; Steve has always been small, but he's never seemed so frail. "If you can hear me, I'll be right back. I'm getting the doc, okay? Just hang in there, pal. Please."

Part of him nearly leant forward and kissed Steve's forehead.

 

The doctor came soon as he could.

Dr. Williams had been Steve's regular for years, and the one to care for Saran before her passing. He'd fought so hard for her, the boys knew, but tuberculosis wins over even the strongest of people, and Sarah was never very strong.

Williams knew Steve well- and Bucky, too. He knew something was up the moment Bucky burst into the clinic, out of breath and red-faced from running full-tilt for 9 blocks, and gasped Steve's name.

"Steven?" Williams put a hand on Steve's shoulder with the care and grace only doctors seemed to possess. "Can you hear me? It's Dr. Williams. James fetched me for you. Steven, hello?"

Bucky couldn't watch the rest, only out of the corner of his eye did he occasionally see Williams take Steve's temperature or pull out a syringe that looked as though it would go right through Steve's arm.  
He stayed out of the way, perched in the dark corner on a stool hard enough to numb after a motionless while.

Bucky wasn't much of a praying man, but he begged and pleaded God that night.

After an eternity Williams stood and packed his bag. Bucky took this as his cue and leapt down off the stool, approaching the doctor. "Well?"

"I've done all I can. I'll be back in the morning. I pray all goes well, James- I would advise that you stay with him, but I doubt you were planning not to."

Bucky gave a weak smirk. "Yeah, I'm staying."

Williams pet his arm. "Merry Christmas, Barnes. God be with you both."

Christmas. Bucky had forgotten.

 

Bucky carried Steve to his room, still rolled in the blanket. It was too easy to scoop him up in his arms and lay him on the old mattress, perhaps the most comfortable thing in the house. Steve didn't stir once.  
He coughed, though. And Bucky winced at every rattled inhale and thick, short breath out.

Bucky hunted the tiny apartment for every blanket he could find, resorting to taking towels from the bathroom when he only found two comforters and a spare sheet. He dropped his jacket over Steve's chest as an afterthought; forget himself- if he did get a cold, it'd only be a mild thing. Steve, however... Steve could die.

Bucky'd planned on staying out in the lounge by the fire, but one glance at his friend unconscious and shivvering despite being buried under every fabric in the house, save the curtains, and he couldn't leave. Instead, he pulled a chair up beside Steve's bed and took an icy hand between his own, methodically rubbing warmth into the blue fingers.

Steve's chest heaved and he convulsed, a violent bought of coughs wracking his body. Bucky clutched his hand tighter and screwed up his eyes, praying... Praying...

"Steve, shh..." Bucky soothed once Steve got his breath back and let out a low, pained moan- hallway between a sob and a scream- and settled back onto the pillow. "Shh, it's alright. It's going to be alright. I'm with you, and I'm not leaving."

Steve's fingers twitched. His eyelids flickered.

Bucky stared at him with held breath as he slowly cracked his eyes open, his eyelids almost audible as they peeled apart to reveal faded, glazed eyes. Steve looked half-dead already, far-gone. He gazed up at Bucky with unfocused eyes.

"Mam?"

Bucky bit his lip. "No, no, Steve."

"Who-?"

"It's me, Steve." Bucky caressing a thumb over the tight skin of Steve's knuckles. "It's your pal, you're Bucky."

"Buck?" Steve's head tilted ever-so-slightly with what seemed like recognition.

"Yeah." Bucky choked, mentally kicking himself for not having a firmer grip on his emotions. "Yeah, yeah, it's me."

"Hurts." Steve croaked. His words were uttered so softly they were missing syllables.

"I know, I know." Bucky hushed him, leaning forward to brush his hair back from his forehead, now glistening with sweat. Steve's eyes closed at the touch and he let out a tiny sigh.

"'S al-ight, then."

Bucky frowned. "What is?"

"I though' I's gonna die alone."

 

Bucky awoke with a still-formed Steve curled into his side. He vaguely remembering Steve violently shivering some time in the early morn, teeth chattering despite the multiple layers covering him. Bucky'd stripped off his shoes and slid his wooly socks over Steve's feet. The scarf he'd wrapped around Steve's forehead to stop the sweat from drying onto his skin in the chilly night air and turning him hypothermic. He'd then climbed over Steve, lying down at his side and encircled him in his arms, pressing his back against the cold wooden tiles of the wall and hugging Steve as close as he could to transfer as much body heat as possible. Steve had continued to shiver, though unconsciously nuzzled into Bucky's chest, curled into his like a child seeking a father's protection from the night. Bucky'd consoled himself with the fact that'd he'd done all he could, and that at least Steve wasn't alone.

He'd prayed through the night, only letting sleep take him once Steve's shivers had calmed and the spaces between coughing fits had grown longer and more definite. He'd placed a feather-light kiss into Steve's hair and closed his eyes, begging God one last time to spare his friend, please.

He'd awoken in practically the same position that he'd fallen asleep in; though Steve was no longer shivering. In fact, Steve was hardly doing anything at all.

Bucky was immediately sent into a state of panic, dread turning his blood cold.

"Steve? Steve, oh god please don't be dead." He tore himself away from Steve, shaking him as violently as he dared. "Steve, please. Oh god, please don't leave me. Ste-"

"Wha...?" Steve groaned, his face screwing up.

Bucky stilled. "Steve?"

His eyes opened to stare blearily up at him. "Buck?"

There was a lump in his throat that he just couldn't swallow, and before Bucky knew it, he was a sobbing mess.

"Bucky? Hey, Buck?" Steve still sounded deathly, but considerably stronger and more aware than last night. Better.

"I-I thought..." Bucky snivelled, trying vainly to wipe his tears away and take it like a man. "I thought I lost you, you punk. I thought... You were so sick and I thought..."

"Hey, Bucky. Hey, James, listen..." Steve put two shaky hands on his shoulders and when Bucky met his eyes they were filled with worry and pain and love and definite tears, thank the lord he wasn't alone. "I'm okay. I think I'm going to be just fine. So stop worrying, okay?"

Bucky exhaled long and steady. "Okay."

"And Buck," Bucky looked at him. "Thanks."

"Don't."

Steve nodded, then proceeded to nearly cough up his lungs. Bucky flinched, but Steve held a hand up to him to let him know he was fine. "It didn't say I was 100%, right?" Steve smirked, voice hoarse.

"Right." Bucky nodded, untying the scarf from around Steve's head and brushing his hair into place. "Oh, I almost forgot!"

"What?"

"Merry Christmas, Steve."

Steve blinked, frowning momentarily. "Oh..." He stared at the scarf in Bucky's hand. "Merry Christmas, Bucky."

 

* * *

Bucky trudged through the snowy streets of 2015 Brooklyn. The world was alive, bright lights dancing over the snow creating rainbow reflections in the shimmering ice crystals. Billboards flashed and car horns blared, the city lights shone like beacons and giant trees sparkled in the nights sky. Even the heavens were decorated for the occasion, a rare clear night revealing a black-blanket sky with stars scattered like silver sequins in the velvet sky. 

People were singing carols on the streets corners, and giant speakers blasted remixed favourites out over the cityscape.

Bucky'd never be used to a 21st century Christmas.

Steve's apartment was just up ahead, simple compared to most these days, and far less extravagant than quarters belonging to the likes of Stark Jr. It was an upgrade from the last, however, and Bucky liked it. Though it brought back bad memories; memories of rooftop chases and shields and an anger in Steve's eyes he'd never thought would be directed at him.

He twisted the key in the locked and slipped inside, tossing his coat onto the hook and kicking off his boots. Snow clung to his hair, still long and scraggly; he'll cut it eventually, maybe. He shook his raggedy hair and peeled the gloves from his fingers, everything wet from melted ice. Steve's present sat in his back and he was careful not to make a sound as he snuck into he bedroom, smuggling it away and hiding it in his side of the closet.

 

Bucky sensed something was off before he saw them. For one, it was far too quiet. For another, he caught scent of something foreign, a slight whiff of perfume that certainly didn't belong in an apartment shared by two men. 

He froze, ears pricked. He heard breathing, so slight only his highly trained ears would detected it. Breath from more than one mouth, and last he checked Steve only had one.

On high alert, muscles tense, Bucky strode over to the light switch and flicked it on, calling Steve's name.

"Ste-"

"SURPRISE!"

Bucky nearly fell back into the wall. Everything happened at once and it was suddenly a little too much; Bucky began shaking, breathing growing erratic and for one frightening moment he thought he was going to have a full-on panic attack.

That was, until Steve came out, approaching him with gentle caution, hands out but his face calm and inviting, unafraid. "Buck, it's okay."

"Steve." Bucky said, tension releasing from his shoulders so fast he nearly suffered whiplash as a rebound form the sudden panic and instant calm. "You scared me."

"Yeah," Steve scratched the back of his neck with a guilty grin in Bucky's direction. "Sorry about that. It was their idea."

'Their' being his team. They all stood before them, a mixture of uncertainty and smirks, concern and impassiveness. It was the red-haired girl Bucky knew from the past that stepped forward; he knew he name to be Natasha, but he preferred not to associate any of them with names.

"Hey, Barnes." She said, the picture of serenity. Bucky appreciated that; a lot of people treated him as a time-bomb, something dangerous and delicate. Most people were afraid of him.

Actually, of the group, only three people weren't; Natasha Romanov, the Russian assassin with whom he had a past he couldn't recall; Bruce Banner, the only person in the room who honestly had nothing to fear, but also one of the kindest members of the squad; and Steve, of course.

"Hello." Bucky said, monotonous.

After that everyone seemed to relax.

Steve stepped forward once they'd all greeted him and dispersed and began to explain.

"It's a Christmas party. I hope you don't mind."

"I don't."

"It's just, I figured we had a lotta Christmases to make up for and I thought it'd be fun, y'know?" He paused. "I can send them home, if you want." 

"No." Bucky tried not to look reproachable.

"You sure?" Steve shifted on his feet, staring down at Bucky with guilty eyes. 

Bucky still wasn't used to having to look _up_ at Steve. "Yes."

"Okay." Steve smiled, obviously convinced. "We've already exchanged gifts, I figured you'd want to open yours privately where there's less pressure."

Bucky relaxed a little more, tension slipping from the coil on his stomach, and smiled softly at Steve. "Thank-you."

"Do you want a drink?"

"Yes."

"You can speak, Buck." Steve put a hand on his arm. "One-word answers don't make for great conversation."

"Sorry." Bucky replied automatically. "Sorry, Steve. I'll try."

"No, I'm not telling you off." Steve's eyes widened slightly. "I just want you to feel comfortable, happy. Do what you like, Buck." He glanced over his shoulder at the party goers. "I... Might hang with he gang. Join if you want to, okay? Only if you want to."

Bucky couldn't convey just how grateful he was to Steve. He knew him so well, even after everything. 

 

The party was a breeze. Everything ran smoothly. Bucky talked to the young Stark, discussing the technology of his arm.

"So, how's it work?" Tony chirped, taking a sip of whatever alcohol he'd mixed into his personal Stark glass. 

"Well..." Bucky'd dove into everything he knew, which was all that much. Stark didn't seem to mind, asking questions and prodding it, turning it over. He seemed more interested in Bucky's metal arm than Bucky himself, which was fine by him.

"Could make some changes." Stark'd mumbled in the end.

"Sure." Bucky replied listlessly.

"Whelp, good talk." Tony slapped a hand on Bucky's back and he tensed awkwardly, unsure was to do. "But Pepper's looking like she's getting a little too cosy with that pot plant and I better drag her home before she makes love with it. Awful drunk she is. Catch you 'round, Gramps #2."

Bucky decided it was best not to try and figure Tony Stark out.

He'd also talked to Banner, who seemed quite content to keep the conversation simple and civil. 

"Nice lights out this year." He said. "Did you see the ones the next block over? Beautiful."

"The lights are always nice, to me." Bucky smiled absently. "Very different from back in the day. Nice."

"Oh, yes." Banner nodded. "I can imagine."

Other than that, Bucky had been content with just watching the party scene unfold. Stark and his accomplice were the only two to get seriously drunk, and they left early. It appeared Steve had instructed them all to take it down a notch, and Bucky was thankful. He hovered on the border of the scene the whole evening, just watching and listening. He liked it when Steve was relaxed; he laughed easier and his smile was just a tinge brighter, and he looked beautiful that night.

Everyone left around 11, saying their goodbyes. They'd grown accustomed to Bucky during the course of the night, and each took the time to wave to him, wish him a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

 

"Well that went better than expected." Steve sighed as he closed the door on the last guest, Director Fury himself.

"You expected worse?" Bucky cocked his head.

"Well, I expected Stark to at least blow one wall, but they all remain standing."

"They seemed quite subdued."

"I warned them." Steve nodded, slinging an arm around Bucky's waist and walking him to the lounge. "No one dares mess with the Cap."

"I'm sure." Bucky actually smirked, rolling his eyes.

"Oh, that reminds me." Steve's eyes glinted with mischief and Bucky immediately felt himself tense again, though not with horror. Steve told him to 'stay put' and spun on his heel, marching out of the room and into the bedroom. Bucky took the opportunity to pilfer a pie from the plate and stuff it in his mouth, having been to uncomfortable to go for one during the party.

Steve returned with his hands behind his back, and stupidly big grin plastered on his face. "Okay, now, if I asked you to do something, you'd do it, right?"

Bucky frowned, squinting at Steve. "Depends."

"If I told you it'd make me the happiest man in the world?"

"I suppose."

Steve nodded, satisfied, and pulled his hand from behind his back, revealing something bright and fluffy. "Would you please wear this?"

Bucky's eyes widened with horror when Steve unfolded the coloured bundle to reveal an ugly Christmas sweater. It was blue. Deep blue. Familiar blue. It had a giant snowman in the centre with a red-and-yellow scarf and tall top-hat, buttons for eyes. Snow was falling over the front of the jumper, around the snowman, and piled in a white mass at the bottom.

"Oh, no. No, no, no."

"You promised." 

Bucky gaped, not even bothering to hide how offended he was. "I did not." Steve stuck his lip out and gave him that look, the look that got Bucky sighing with unconfined annoyance. "Ugh, fine."

Steve's face immediately lit up and he shuffled over, rolling the sweater up and sliding it over Bucky's head. "It's the same colour as that scarf I gave you, remember? It's a shame we lost it." He sighed. "But, hey, this is great. It suits you! Of course, it's not handmade but-"

"I like it." Bucky interjected, running a hand over the soft material. "Thank-you."

Steve smiled with warmth and smugness. "Oh! and I got a matching one, hang on..."

Bucky watched as he trot back down the hall and disappeared into the bedroom, remerging a few moments later with a white sweater on; a deep blue Christmas tree on the front decorated with red and yellow baubles. He smiled shyly, a blush on his cheeks, and came to sit down beside Bucky, something in his hands.

"Buck?" He said slowly, once settled next to him. "What's this?" He passed the package that'd been in Bucky's pack over to him.

"Ah..." Bucky hummed. The present was addressed to Steve, but unopened. Bucky knew he should've hid it someplace better. "It's your gift."

"What is it?"

Bucky laughed. "Open it and find out!"

Steve snorted and took the gift back, balancing it on his knee and peeling back each individual strip of tape with surgical care. Some things never change, Bucky guessed. 

Steve gasped as the paper fell away, revealing a very old, but well-conditioned sketchbook with black casing and thick, tinged paper. "Bucky, this isn't...?"

"Technically, I stole it." Bucky admitted immediately, but without a hint of remorse. "I figured, what the hell. It's yours anyway, what claim's the Smithsonian got on it?"

Steve's eyes were welling and Bucky tried hard not to notice. 

"Thank-you, Buck." He gasped.

"It's really no trouble, Steve. It's hardly a gift, I mean... I've already given it to you."

"No, no, it counts. It counts..." Steve ran the pads of his fingers over the smooth surface. "Have you looked inside?"

"No. You never let me before, I figured it'd be unfair to now."

Steve chuckled. "Yeah, I guess. Thanks for the thought."

Bucky nodded and put a hand- his human hand- over Steve's. "What's inside?"

Steve didn't answer, but instead flicked open the first page, revealing the messy handwriting of 12-year-old Bucky.

_'To Steve,_

_Merry Christmas to my best pal in the whole world. Draw a picture of me, will you?_

_~~Love~~  From Bucky 1929'_

The next page over had a re-draw of Bucky's favourite picture, the original held over it with a paperclip. The redraw was considerably better- brilliant, in fact. And it took a moment for Bucky to register why it looked so familiar, aside from the childhood original.

"I used the soldier as a template for the original uniform." Steve explained, pointing at the Soldier standing proud in the centre. "I sketched him again separately and passed it on to Stark- Howard Stark, not... Yeah. That's why this page," He tapped the frayed remains of the next page over. "Is missing. I hope you don't mind that I tore a page out. I really didn't want to, but- I don't know, I wasn't thinking."

"It's fine." Bucky stared in slight shock at the drawings.

"Well, yeah..." Steve flicked the page over, skipping suddenly when he saw the next piece. Bucky only caught a glimpse of what looked like a monkey on a unicycle, but didn't ask questions. Steve skimmed through the book, until he reached the last few pages, then he stopped. "This one's for you."

Bucky frowned. "But, I only got this-"

"From before. Way before." Steve passed the book over, head bowed.

Frowning, Bucky took it and stared down at the page.

It looked like the Solider picture, only different. I took a while for Bucky to figure it out; not because Steve's art was indecipherable- it was perfect- but because Bucky himself hadn't seen them look the way they did on the page in an age.

It was Bucky and Steve, before the war. Possibly drawn sometime after Bucky got his orders. Bucky stood tall, on the place of the Soldier, the same pose and near-same uniform, hair swept to the side the way he'd worn it back in the day, before it grew long and unmanageable. Steve was beside him, in the same position as Small Steve was in the original, though a little bigger; just as skinny thought. It was Steve before he became Captain America. Steve, the little guy from Brooklyn too stupid to run away from a fight. He gazed up at Bucky with wonder and admiration, and it suddenly dawned on Bucky that this is how Steve had seen him all along. He only wished he could explain that this is how _he'd_ seen them all along, only switched; Steve the hero and Bucky the helpless admirer lost without him. 

"Oh, Stevie." He breathed, and suddenly he felt so like his old self, sat in Steve's ratty apartment staring at yet another of his incredible sketches. "It's perfect. Thank-you."

"You asked me to draw a picture of us." Steve replied, softly. "I know tonight didn't make up for all the Christmases we missed, but... I hope it was nice."

"Steve, it was great. It more than made up for it. And this is great, thank-you." Bucky leant forward and pressed a kiss to Steve's temple.

Steve sighed, a smile on his lips. "Merry Christmas, Buck."

"Merry Christmas, Steve."

**Author's Note:**

> Join me at http://scribblesnsquiggles.tumblr.com


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